Vodka Tolerance
by Scarpaw
Summary: Because while a Russian can hold their Vodka, doesn't necessarily mean an American can… Human AU


So, another one-shot... The inspiration for this one came from a picture I found on the Internet, comparing, obviously, a Russian's tolerance for Vodka, and an American. And thus, this little plot bunny was born.

This uses human names, as it is a Human AU. They're all in a nameless college/university place and all are of legal drinking age. I've never been drunk before, as I'm still underage, but I hope I did a fairly accurate description...

Pairings implied/mentioned are:

_USUK_

_CubaCanada_

_...And many others_

Enjoy~!

**Disclaimer: I'm afraid I don't own Hetalia.**

_**Vodka Tolerance**_

_Because while a Russian can hold their Vodka, doesn't necessarily mean an American can… Human AU_

Now, never let it be said that an American like one Alfred F. Jones can't hold his alcohol. Unlike Arthur 'Arty' Kirkland, Alfred's self-proclaimed best friend, who can't hold his alcohol for shit, and winds up drunker than hell after pretty much his second glass of rum, Alfred could go all night drinking and not even get the _least_ bit tipsy. He was simply just _that_ awesome.

Of course, he had never tested his tolerance fully. There was still many alcoholic drinks in which he hadn't perused or tested to determine whether he liked or not, or built up a tolerance to. Not that he'd admit of course. Or that he needed to build up a tolerance either. It just came genetically. Sort of like how he miraculously never got hangovers.

Which, in all actuality, was a good thing, seeing as he normally went drinking with Arty, and Arty normally wound up with one hell of a hangover in the morning. And Alfred, being the awesome superhero of a best friend (and, coincidentally, roommate as well,), was always there to take care of his friend after their drinking binges.

Alfred didn't always go drinking with Arty though, just like Arty didn't always go with him. Sometimes Arty ditched him to go drinking with Matthias Køhler and Gilbert Beilschmidt, or with his old '_just friends_' childhood friend, Francis Bonnefoy. Who was a rather hands-y person, Alfred had deduced after his first meeting with the Frenchman, and was rather reluctant to let his best friend around him when he was drunk. Because trust him, Alfred knew what Arthur was like when he was shit-faced, and not all of it was completely innocent…

In contrast, Alfred's only other drinking partner was actually only his half-brother, Matthew Williams. Of course, that didn't mean Mattie never brought his friends along to go drinking. Sometimes he brought Gilbert, who, Alfred had to admit, was a _riot_ when drunk, and other times he brought his Cuban not-boyfriend, but most _definitely_ boyfriend (who ironically hated Alfred's guts), Alejandro something-or-another. Mattie once brought Francis with him, along with one of Francis' friends- a Spaniard named Toni or something who brought his spit-fire of a boyfriend along with him… Man, had that been an entertaining night…

But anyways. Tonight was actually one of those rare nights where Al got to go drinking with both Arty _and_ Mattie. Okay, sure, there was a whole bunch of other people tagging along, seeing as it was a 'celebration' of sorts to them soon being graduates of college, but still. He was able to go drinking, and he had his best bro (Mattie, duh) and his best ho (Al never quite understood _why_ exactly Arthur turned the color he did whenever he called him that…) with him tonight.

Al was having an awesome time so far tonight if he said so himself. So far, he got to see exactly why Arty went drinking with Matthias Køhler, watch Gilbert get wailed upside the head with a frying pan by some Hungarian chick, and witness the star player of the university's rugby team get tackled to the floor by a small brunet half his size- height _and_ weight wise. Alfred had stumbled upon this guy from the Netherlands smoking pot just outside the bar when he took a wrong turn to the bathroom, and had the luck[?] of watching as Im Yong Soo, a [South] Korean from his English class grope this Chinese chick who actually turned out to be a guy… Oh! And he also passed this creep wearing a mask who seemed to be drawing on some dude's face with marker while the other guy was asleep. Though, why anybody would come to a bar just to sleep, Alfred would never know.

Yup. Interesting night so far.

He was starting to feel a bit parched by the time he made it back from his foray to the bathroom, so Al plopped himself down on a barstool next to this guy in a big overcoat and scarf with pale hair and violet eyes and ordered a beer.

The bartender set down Al's drink at the same time he came with the drink for the guy sitting next to him. A glass filled with a clear liquid; Alfred gave a derisive snort as his mind jumped to the only conclusion he had for the contents of the glass. Water.

"Hmm?" The other guy hummed, turning slightly towards him. "What's so funny?" Hmm… The guy had a funny accent… It seemed familiar somehow, but Alfred could quite place it.

"Nothing." Alfred shook his head, turning his eyes to his own drink, taking a gulp and missing how the other man followed his line of sight between his own glass and Alfred's.

"Ah. I get it now," He drew his own conclusion as he raised his own glass, taking a hearty gulp from the glass. "I wouldn't expect a novice drinker like you to be able to handle something like this."

"Novice drinker? Yeah right," Alfred laughed and rolled his eyes. "Like you need any experience to drink _water_. I'm _American_- I can drink harder stuff than _that_ any day of the week!"

"Oh?" The smile had never left the other guy's face, and it didn't appear to be leaving anytime soon. "This isn't water. This is vodka- not that I'd expect a capitalist pig such as yourself to know what vodka is. Or have a tolerance for it."

"Excuse me?" Alfred took offence to the other's statement. Sure, he didn't get the 'capitalist pig' comment, but he did understand that his alcohol tolerance was being challenged. "Is that I challenge I hear?"

"Challenge?" The other echoed. Confusion furrowed itself over his brow as he thought it over.

"_Da_, it is." He agreed at last. "If you think you can handle something like vodka, that is."

"Think? Ha, I know I can you… you… communist!" Okay, so the comeback was sort of lame, but really, his integrity or whatever of having pretty much the best tolerance for alcohol for pretty much the whole university was being called into question! He had to protect it somehow.

"Bartender!" Alfred barked, taking no notice of the crowd that started to circle around them. Neither did he notice how money was starting to exchange hands. "Two bottles of Vodka, ASAP!"

"_Hey, isn't that…?"_

"_Yeah, it is…"_

"_A drinking contest?"_

"_Oh, this is going to be terrible…"_

From the semi-circle that encompassed the two, Matthew managed to breach the walls and push up to Alfred.

"Al, what are you thinking?" Matthew half-whispered, half-yelled to his half-brother, tone chiding.

"What am I thinking, Mattie?" Al laughed boisterously. "I'm thinking my tolerance for alcohol is being mocked, and I have to do something to protect it!"

"But Al," He was whining now. "That's _Ivan Braginsky_. The Russian transfer?" Damn, so his commie statement was right. Spot on. Al gave himself an imaginary pat on the back.

"And?" Al asked back. "So he's a commie bastard- what's that got to do with anything?"

"'What's that got to do with anything?'" Matthew parroted back. "That has to do with _everything_! Ivan practically _lives_ off of vodka! And you're challenging him to a drinking- a _vodka drinking -_contest? How much more stupid can you get?"

(More money changed hands.)

"Well, he challenged me first!" Al whined petulantly, before spotting the bartender with two glasses and their bottles of vodka. "'Sides it's too late now. Just sit back and watch the show, 'kay Mattie?" He patted the seat next to him. "Kick back and take a front row seat and watch me kick this commie's ass at drinking."

But Matthew just rolled his eyes, and turned his back on Alfred, pushing his way back through the crowd and, consequently, away from Alfred and the idiocy that was about to happen.

"Alright," Alfred slapped his hands together, looking between the glasses, the bottles of Vodka, and the commie bastard he now knew as 'Ivan Braginsky'. "Rules are simple. First one to the bottom of their bottle without puking and or passing out wins. Understand?"

"_Da_." Ivan nodded his assent. "And, to be fair, I won't even ask anything of you when I win. The stupidity of a capitalist pig will be entertainment enough." Alfred snorted and rolled his eyes. They both poured a shot and Alfred only hesitated a second before throwing it back and taking the shot.

"Oh _God_." His eyes watered and his nose burned as the liquor went down. It tasted like paint thinner even though it had the consistency of water. Alfred glanced out of the corner of his eye to see Ivan's reaction.

He was sitting there like it hadn't even affected him, that bastard.

Alfred reached for the bottle and poured his second shot.

Now, before we go on, my dear readers, I'd like to point out the fact that while Alfred believes he can out drink Ivan vodka wise, and still remain coherent, that is not the case. There is evidence to be shown that American's are incapable of holding their alcohol like a Russian. As such, we know the turn of events that will be happening shortly from here on out. And, for your entertainment, Alfred just happens to be a 'textbook' case of what happens when an American falls under the influence of vodka. Let's get back to the story now, shall we?

So, Alfred had poured his second shot of vodka already. There was this unusual heat starting to pool in his center- something that was completely unusual for him. But, he paid no attention to it, and just knocked back the vodka.

This time around it went down a bit easier, and it didn't burn so much. However, after this shot, he did feel somehow… lighter…? Yeah, lighter- if that was possible, at least. A laugh caught in his throat, and he couldn't keep it from burbling out of his mouth. The heat in his center seemed to get hotter as he poured the next shot, and Alfred couldn't help the laugh that came again.

Ivan was pouring his third shot as well, but he didn't seem anywhere near as fazed as Alfred was. Sure he was laughing, but it seemed to be more of a chant than anything.

"_Kolkolkol_," Or something like that was what he was saying, and he was giving off this dark, weird sort of scary vibe that kind of made Alfred want to either laugh or move away. His mind chose the former, and he continued laughing, even as he took the next shot.

"I," Alfred hiccupped slightly, with a giggle in his voice. It seemed like he was slipping early on. "I love you all!"

…

…

And they downed the third shot.

Like the past two, Ivan seemed relatively unaffected. For Alfred however, the heat that had been burning from the start seemed a little more… pleasant, than before, if that was possible. A buzzing was starting to hum in the back of his head, but Alfred ignored that. It was unusual, but it wasn't all bad from what Alfred could tell.

But, he did start crying. He wasn't too sure why he was crying, but Alfred knew he was crying.

He was still laughing too. But that was only slightly important. From the haze that he didn't know was forming but was definitely forming because of the vodka, Alfred just blamed the tears on his laughter. That was a logical conclusion. Because he _totally_ was not getting drunk. It just wasn't possible. He was Alfred, the Hero. He had the best alcohol tolerance in pretty much the entire school.

They threw down the fourth shot.

The world was blurring slightly now. Everything was fuzzy, the burning was a little more intense, and the buzz seemed to be louder.

But Alfred, being Alfred, took it in stride.

His mind made up a logical explanation for it- other than the reality that, for the first time in his life, he was actually getting _drunk,_ heaven forbid. He just knocked his glasses askew with that last shot- that was all. The heat was because it was hot in the bar, and the buzz was just the noise from the patrons whispering behind him and Ivan.

Alfred was still laughing; tears were still coming from his eyes, and yet his brain somehow managed to process that this was a good time to call somebody. His friends? Well, they all were here, weren't they…?

Oh, no. Arty had left earlier with Francis, for some reason or another, and Mattie… Mattie had left, hadn't he? With that Cuban jerk. But Mattie probably didn't want to talk to him, seeing as he had seemed pretty mad at Al because of this drinking challenge with Ivan the commie bastard.

So, Al decided to call up the one, the only, Arty~!

Now, let's freeze the scene upon the bar for a moment, and move to a different location, across town. To the door to the shared dorm room of one Alfred F. Jones and Arthur Kirkland.

At the door, prepared to knock on said door is one slightly worried half-brother of previously mentioned Alfred F. Jones, Matthew Williams. After leaving the bar with Alejandro, a strange feeling of guilt overcame Mattie for leaving his brother alone at the bar, especially while drinking vodka, of all substances, with Ivan Braginsky, of all people.

So, Matthew decided to go and let Arthur know what Alfred was getting up to. Because the Canadian knew that Arthur cared for Al in his own, strange, way. Either because of how Al always took care of Arthur after his own drinking binges, or because Arthur secretly loved Al.

Mattie wasn't too sure, but he was betting on the latter.

Anyways, time in, and now Matthew was knocking upon the door. It took a moment, but the doorknob was twitching a bit, indicating that there was someone on the other side opening up the door.

"That better not be you, you bloody frog," And it was most definitely Arthur opening the door, if the grumbling was anything to go by. "I told you not to come back if you knew what was good for- oh. You're not the frog." Arthur stared at him blankly for a moment, emerald meeting violet. "Don't tell me. You're…"

"Matthew." Matthew answered anyways. It was a ninety-five percent chance that Arthur wouldn't have gotten it, and would have spent five minutes trying to get it right, so he skipped right to the point. In the five minutes it would have taken Arthur to get his name, who knew what Alfred might have done? "Williams. Alfred's half-brother?"

"Ah, yes," Arthur nodded. "I knew that." He didn't. But Matthew wasn't going to bother pointing that out. "What do you want? Alfred's still out at the bar…"

"I know," Matthew said. "That's actually why I'm here."

"I take it that is supposed to imply Alfred is doing something stupid and possibly property damage worthy." Arthur answered in stride, not phased in the slightest. Alfred was known to do stupid things all the time. He had gotten several late night phone calls and visits from various people such as the Mexican student, Margarita, Vash the temperamental Swiss student, Sophie from Monaco, and many others for Alfred's stupid stints.

"Well, possibly. Most likely. Yes." Matthew finally settled on an answer. "He is. You see-"

But the sharp, shrill ring of Arthur's cell phone cut him off.

"Ah…" Matthew faltered. "That's probably him." Arthur fished his phone out of his pocket, sending a cursory glance at the other.

"It is," Arthur assented. "That's the ringtone the bloody wanker insisted I set for him. Why are you making it seem like him calling me is a bad thing?"

"Well…" Matthew worried his lip a bit. "Just… just don't be too shocked at whatever you hear, okay? Just… remember all the times you've been drunk."

"What does me being drunk got to do with anything?" Arthur snorted as he snapped open the phone and said briskly, "What do you want Alfred?"

"_ARTY~!_" Matthew flinched a bit at Alfred's voice level, and Arthur winced, holding the phone away at Alfred's most definite drunken shout, words slurred just a tad.

Arthur sent Matthew a withering glare and Matthew in kind did his best to look sheepish.

"I did try to warn you."

"Alfred, are you…" Oh hail the queen, it couldn't be possible, could it? Arthur could feel himself just stumbling over the question as he considered the possibility. "Are you _drunk?_" Because never, in the entire time Arthur had known Alfred, had he once seen Al get drunk. He was actually quite tolerant of most alcohol, unlike Arthur himself.

"_Wha-? No, 'f course not. Who d'you think you're talkin' to, Arty?_" But his slurred words told otherwise.

Arthur disappeared into the dorm room long enough to grab his jacket.

"Alfred, stay put. And for all that is hole, _don't drink anything more_!"

Matthew snorted softly to himself. Fat chance of _that_.

And back on the other side of the town, Alfred was doing just that.

Drinking more, I mean. Why would he listen to Arty and stop drinking? He still had half a bottle of vodka to go, and he wasn't about to let a stupid commie bastard get the better of him!

The fifth shot was slung, and the world tilted on its axis slightly. Alfred could see, but didn't necessarily _feel_ himself slipping off of his barstool. He slipped off the stool, head landing quite unluckily into the lap of the patron to his immediate right. Alfred fumbled as he picked himself up, and had the misfortune of accidentally groping the young lady upon who he had landed.

"Ah!" She shrieked. "_Espèce de salaud!"_ Oh. Al recognized that shrill voice. That was… Michelle. From… Seychelles? And that… that wasn't English she was speaking. It was… French. Yeah, French.

Well, Alfred could speak French to! And to prove that fact, he did just that.

Michelle's response to whatever Alfred said- because although it was untranslatable and not able to put into this story, it was obviously not nice and very offensive -was a firm slap across the face that sent the blond reeling to the floor.

Alfred took this all in a figurative stride, and just laughed. The world was blurrier now, but that was mostly because of the fact that his glasses really had been knocked askew this time by the force of Michelle's slap. But that was okay. He just hauled himself with wobbling balance back onto the barstool, and clumsily poured his fifth? - no, it was his sixth shot -his sixth shot of vodka.

He tipped the glass back, the liquid within going down a whole hell of a lot easier than the first glass he had that night. Still, that didn't mean Alfred was anywhere near close to achieving the tolerance he expected himself to have. Not that he knew, of course. He was pretty damn well smashed, even if he couldn't tell.

Which, in actuality, was probably a good thing. Alfred would probably be reduced to tears if he saw how his oh-so-perfect tolerance for anything of the alcoholic/liquor nature was shattered. Arthur, on the other hand, would be disappointed that he missed what happened (but not for long, because there was a shifty looking Jap who seemed to be taping the whole affair, and would be found later selling the footage for a… fair price from his dorm room.)

The giggling laughter was now coming more frequently to Alfred in his drunken state. In fact, he was laughing so hard, that he nearly didn't get down that shot of vodka. But, he managed, and this shot seemed to make he feel even lighter than the last few.

Alfred was actually laughing so hard now, that he was starting to worry a few of the onlookers. He _was_ okay… wasn't he? Nobody wanted to actually go up and ask the American though, so it was Toris Lorinaitis who was [forcibly] volunteered to go check up on him.

"Uh, um… Are you okay Alfred?" Toris asked, trying to keep as far away from Ivan, who was on his other side, as possible. Toris, of course, knew his question was stupid. The American looked beyond drunk, while Ivan looked scarcely affected. That was what happened when one tried drinking vodka with Ivan though. Toris knew that Ivan drank vodka all hours of the day, with every meal. How'd he come across this information? Well, it had something to do with him and his other two friends pretty much being Ivan's personal slaves for their entire college careers…

"Huh?" Alfred's head whipped around so fast Toris flinched, nearly reeling back into Ivan, before remembering that it was _Ivan_ who was behind him, and effectively changing course to righting his balance. "Oh, it's you Tori!"

Toris winced this time, from a combination of the stink of vodka on Al's breath, the slurring that rendered his words almost impossible to understand, and also by being called 'Tori'.

"Yeah," Toris simply nodded, and didn't bother correcting Alfred on his name. It wouldn't do any use trying to correct the drunk on it, because he'd probably just botch it up some other way. Hopefully though, no one else had heard it though… "I asked you if you were okay."

"Definitely!" Alfred gave a sloppy smile that was probably more befit upon a dog, and Toris gave a silent sigh of relief. "I mean, why wouldn't I be? I'm rich!"

…

And cue blanching.

"A-Alright Alfred," Toris backed away slowly. "I-If you say so." Toris hurried his way back into the crowd, intent on disappearing to his dorm room back at the college. He didn't care that he placed a hundred dollars on Ivan winning, he just wanted out, because that was so nerve wracking, and he really didn't want to run into…

"Yo, Toris! I've been, like, looking for you all night~!" Too late. "Or, should I, like, start calling you Tori from now on?"

"Feliks…" Toris sighed. It was his roommate, Feliks Łukasiewicz, who Toris had actually managed to avoid all night- up until now, of course.

"Don't 'Feliks' me, Tori~!" Feliks half-scolded, throwing his arm around the Lithuanian's neck. "I need your help with something~! And maybe, if you go quietly, we can, like, have some fun after~!"

But Toris never got a chance to make a decision, because the Pole just dragged him off anyways.

Now, while that whole scene happened, two things had been going on unseen in the background. First, Al had taken shot number lucky seven. The second was Alfred climbing up onto the bar, stripping off his shirt.

Somewhere in the background, someone wolf-whistled, a girl had a nose bleed start, and a handful of [offended?] patrons left the bar.

It was around the time that Alfred started doing some weird movement that vaguely resembled a stripper pole dancing sans said pole that Arthur and Matthew walked into the bar. [_A Canadian and an Englishman walked into a bar…_] Matthew, if he had had it his way, would have left the bar immediately. Unfortunately for him, the one time he didn't want to be noticed and wanted to be invisible, Arthur _had_ to remember him.

"Not so fast," The Brit growled. "This is just as much your fault as it is Al's stupidity. You aren't going anywhere."

Matthew huffed, but followed Arthur without a fuss.

By the time the two had pushed their way past the crowd, Alfred had forgone his shot glass and just picked the bottle up and drank from that.

"Alfred!" Arthur scolded, sounding aghast. However, to Alfred's drunken mind, Arthur's tone of voice wasn't one of being appalled, but actually one of happiness.

"Arty~!" Alfred hiccupped, and threw his arms out as if expecting a hug. All he got, though, was a scowl. "I knew you'd come~!"

"Yes, yes," Arthur scoffed. "Because _someone_ has to make sure you get your drunken ass back to campus." Alfred frowned.

"I'm not drunken." He gestured unhappily, and came close to falling off the counter.

"Right, because any person who was sober would say that they weren't 'drunken'." Arthur snarked back, approaching the counter, holding his hand out. "Now give me the bottle."

"No!" Alfred denied, hugging the bottle to his chest. "You can't make me! I'm alright!"

Arthur rolled his eyes, and kept his hand out.

"Bottle. Now." But Alfred refused once more. Arthur briefly wondered if Al had to go through this every time he himself got drunk, but quickly dismissed it. That didn't matter right now.

"Uh-uh," Alfred stuck his tongue out like a petulant child, and Arthur could feel himself getting just the tiniest bit annoyed. Not enough to try and use his black magic to curse the American into next week, but, well, it could happen if Alfred didn't _hand over_ _that __**bottle**_.

"Alfred." Arthur's tone was sharp. "For the love of the Queen, if you don't hand me that bottle right now-"

"Chug the rest of it!" Someone in the back of the crowd shouted. "Then give the bottle to the ole' Arty, Alfred!" Arthur scowled; he recognized the voice, if only barely. It was one of his relatives, and he knew that they were only doing it to give him hell.

"Alfred, don't!" Arthur shouted, lunging for any body part he could grab of the blond, but it was too late. Alfred had already downed the rest of the bottle of vodka.

"Damn it, Alfred!" Arthur swore, lunging once more at the idiotic American, whilst Matthew just casually looked down at the analog wristwatch on his wrist. His lips moved as he muttered to himself, watching the seconds tick past.

"Three…" Matthew muttered. "Two… One… And…" He drawled the last word out, staring up at the bar counter where his half brother was still evading his not-boyfriend, but definitely boyfriend, Arthur.

As if on cue, Alfred stopped where he stood, and started to sway as if someone had just hit him with a particularly hard hammer on the back of the head. He collapsed like a sack of potatoes, falling and crumbling down straight on top of Arthur. He was gone; out like a light.

Arthur grumbled, hoisting the drunk up by his armpits.

"C'mon Matthew," He rolled his eyes. "We should get Mister I'm-Gonna-Drink-Even-When-Told-To-Stop back to the dorm."

"Alright," Matthew agreed, hopping off of the barstool he had taken a seat on while he'd been waiting.

And in the back of the crowd, a particularly smug looking Eduard von Bock, an Estonian student, was collecting his earnings from a disgruntled crowd.

Ivan just continued happily working his way through his third bottle of vodka. (Until a creepy girl in a blue dress and white apron with a blue bow carrying what seemed to be a butcher's knife came through the establishment chanting something that sounded mysteriously like '_Marriedmarriedmarriedlet'sgetmarried_брат_let'sbecomeonemarriedmarried…_' and he left in a hurry.)

_The Next Morning_

"Ack, what happened last night?" Alfred groaned, hand clamping over the bridge of his nose in an attempt to assuage the pounding in the back of his head.

"You got pissed, that's what happened," Arthur's voice boomed, grumbling, from his spot on his bed across from Al's.

"Arty," Al whined, eyes scrunching shut from the blinding light that filled the dorm room. "Can't you be quieter~?" And then, almost as if an afterthought, he added. "I'm not drunk." Because he knew enough British slang from Arthur to know what 'pissed' meant.

"Not anymore," He snorted, before turning to the Canadian in their desk chair. "Could you get the lights and close the curtains? It's probably going to take a while for his hangover to go."

Matthew nodded and slipped out of the chair and flicked the light switch before hopping over and shutting the curtains over the room's sole window.

"Don' have a hangover," Alfred whined, and Arthur merely chuckled.

"Whatever you say love, whatever you say."

And Matthew slipped out, unnoticed as he normally was, and left the two lovebirds to their morning.

_**~~Omake~~**_

"Matthew? I hadn't known you left." There had been a knocking at the door, and Arthur had been quick to answer it, lest Alfred start bitching once more.

"Uh, yeah…" Matthew fidgeted at the door. "Um… how to put this?"

"Put what?" Arthur asked suspiciously.

"Ah, Tino wanted me to let you know," Matt started. "Well, first, he wants you to get your little brother, Peter, to start calling him Mama. He finds it sort of creepy."

"And the other?" Arthur admittedly ignored the part about Peter. He didn't care for the younger boy much, and he seemed to be doing well, replacing Arthur with Tino…

"Oh, um, well…" Matthew sighed and cut to the chase. "Berwald doesn't want you or Alfred to ever come back to the bar. Ever."

"…What?"

"Because of Alfred's actions last night, and because of your normal antics when you're drunk," Matthew said a bit louder. "Berwald's decided that you and Al can't drink at his family's bar anymore. Um, sorry."

And he was gone.

Arthur blinked. Then blinked again. Blinked a third time, for good measure, then swore.

"Ah, bloody hell!"

…

…

The next week, Matthias was sneaking the two of them in the back door.

_**~~The End~~**_

_****_So, can you name all the nations that were mentioned/implied in here? There's around thirty or so of them...

How was it? Funny? Interesting? Worth the time of your life it took away to read it?

Read and Review~ ^_^

~~Paw-Chan Signing Out~~


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